Aliens are Boring
by beesandbrews
Summary: John is in a mood. Sherlock decides a lesson in observation would make a perfect distraction. Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones.


The under the breath grumbling that accompanied the flinging aside of the newspaper was a predictable event. Sherlock picked up the tabloid and glanced at the photograph that had precipitated John's ire. The caption and the article were equally predictable and consequently boring, but that was the way of it. Most things in Sherlock's world were indescribably dull.

The photograph was, of course, of him and John. They had been about to enter a flat on the Isle of Dogs, but his finely honed senses had screamed 'danger' and he'd ducked, pulling John down with him. A moment later the building had exploded.

Naturally the headline read 'Sherlock Holmes Cradles Partner Protectively as Hellfire Rains' and the photograph depicted John in his arms. Sherlock was forced to admit that he did look concerned for his friend's safety. Considering the circumstances, there was nothing wrong with that; they'd only missed death by inches. It was a perfectly reasonable reaction.

Sherlock knew the tabloids' persistent, pointless interest in his love life was a tender subject with John, mostly because they had decided that John was the object of his affections. In a sense, they were right. John Watson was one of the few individuals in Sherlock's estimation that were worth the time he spent with them. He also knew that his life was different since John entered it. Even the tedium of everyday annoyances seemed less wearing, and he would regret his absence should John ever decide that their partnership was more trouble than it was worth. John, for all his predictabilities, amused him.

He folded the newspaper neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his overcoat knowing, despite John's current fit of pique, he would want to save the clipping for his scrapbook, and then glanced at the clock above their heads. They had at least fifteen minutes before their train was due to arrive, they may was well put the time to productive use.

The railway station was filled with the normal and thus boring activities of people going about their daily business. Sherlock watched a pickpocket liberate a wallet from an unwary tourist. He used his smart phone to snap a photograph and sent the details to the security office suggesting they send one of their people to apprehend the thief before he made good his escape, put the mobile back into his pocket, and continued his survey.

"The tabloids see, but they do not observe."

John sighed, and the sigh sounded to Sherlock's ears annoyed. John could be quite volatile when he was in that sort of a mood, he was definitely in need of a distraction.

"Why don't you tell me about our fellow travellers? Those two for example." He pointed at a pair of men who had just left the ticket queue.

John glanced at him. The look in his eyes said he wasn't ready to let go of his irritation, but he'd humour Sherlock anyway. "Those two?" He drank the last of his coffee and then set the paper cup aside before shifting into a more comfortable position on the hard plastic bench. "All right. Fine. They're travelling on business. Short trip, they don't plan on being out of Cardiff long because those are overnight bags they're carrying, and not something more substantial."

Sherlock nodded his approval. "Excellent, John! Keep going."

John tipped his chin indicating the man on the left. "The younger of the pair. He's the subordinate. He's handling the tickets and he's got a smart phone that looks like it's glued to his hand. He uses it as a PDA as much as a mobile. He's annoyed about something, but his boss is blowing his concern off."

"And the American?"

John looked at him sharply. Sherlock realised he'd slipped, but it was a little thing. "He's too demonstrative to be anything else," he said quickly as the older man bumped his companion's shoulder with his own and smiled, exposing a great number of very white teeth. "What can you tell me about him?"

John pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed as if he were trying to get into the other man's head. "He's not used to wearing a suit. He keeps pulling at his tie like it's choking him. The topcoat is new. He's used to something different. He keeps frowning at the way it moves."

Sherlock found himself honestly delighted. "John! You surpass yourself. I'm very impressed."

The genuinely pleased smile was a tell. For the moment, at least, John had been distracted out of his ill temper. It faded nearly as fast as it appeared to be replaced by a resigned look. "Now, Sherlock, tell me what I've missed."

"Let's start with the younger of the pair," Sherlock said, dropping into his role of tutor. "You're right, he is the subordinate, at least during their working hours. He's remonstrating his partner because this is, at least ostensibly, a business trip."

"They're a couple?" John stared in a manner that he would normally consider rude for several seconds and then looked away when he realised what he was doing. He looked at him curiously. "How can you tell?"

"Body language." Sherlock did his best to keep the sigh of impatience out of his voice. John was trying and the younger of the pair was keeping a tight leash on his partner. "It can tell you more about a person, or persons than hours of conversation. "They're not doing anything overt, but look at the way they constantly violate one another's personal space. It's obvious they're very comfortable with one another. Far more than most employers and employees tend to be at any rate."

John looked up again at the pair as if he were seeing them afresh, and then he glanced over at Sherlock. His eyes narrowed. He didn't say anything, but John seemed to notice for the first time that their shoulders were all but brushing.

"Look, he's just lost his temper and batted the American's hands away from his tie," Sherlock continued as the very correct young man leaned forward and whispered something. The American's eyes widened, and he smiled another very toothy grin. "Now he's offered a reward, no doubt something sexual, as an incentive to behave."

Sherlock knew John's eyes were on him and he was considering a comment about the blunt assessment, but he ignored him and carried on with the analysis.

"That suit is interesting as well. That is obviously a man who takes a great deal of pride in the cut of his clothes, yet his jacket is slightly loose in the chest as if something is missing." He paused and waited for John to fill in the blank.

"A holster?" John's uncertainty was painful, but he had arrived at the correct answer and Sherlock felt another small surge of pleasure. "He's used to carrying a side arm, and it's bothering him that for this trip he's had to go unarmed."

"Excellent! And?" Sherlock prompted.

"Bodyguard and personal assistant?" John shook his head. "Come on, Sherlock. Who are they? It's obvious you know."

The loudspeaker broke over the din announcing the Cardiff to London express. The pair under observation headed for the track as Sherlock and John got to their feet.

"Who in the civilian world is allowed to carry a firearm?" Sherlock asked before continuing. "Secret Service, undercover police, and a very select number of persons in service to the Crown. If they were any of those and on duty, they'd both be carrying. As it is, they're on duty – as demonstrated by their clothes and conduct – but not on an assignment where there is imminent danger likely to occur. So, travelling to London for a meeting where guns would be prohibited. The American has seen military service, although not for some time. He is however very used to being in command. There's a weight around his eyes, even when he's smiling that demonstrates he's used to making hard decisions. He's not a police officer, which puts him in the service of the Crown. There's only one likely organisation where a personal assistant would also need to double as a field agent. And so, John, the conclusion is obvious."

"Is it really?" John tossed his coffee cup into a waste bin. It bounced, but went into the already crowded receptacle.

"Painfully," Sherlock said with a sigh. He touched John's shoulder just long enough to let him know they should hang back. "That, John, is Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood."

John shook his head. "Torchwood. I've never heard of it."

Sherlock shrugged. "Of course you haven't, John. It's top secret. I only know because … " He trailed off. "Not important. If they're travelling by train to London instead of being flown by helicopter then it's for some routine matter, probably having to do with budgets or administrative issues, and not because of a crisis, which is why a man of action like Captain Harkness looks so uncomfortable. Bureaucrats are far more intimidating than an alien invasion force or a planetary emergency."

John, as Sherlock knew he would, was staring at him in disbelief. He put his hand on Sherlock's forearm and held him in a vice-like grip. It was clear from the way his gaze darted around the station platform that his world view had just altered radically, and he wasn't sure he could trust what was in front of him. In that moment Sherlock felt a bit sad for John and all the others like him too unobservant to truly see the world in which they inhabited.

"Wait a minute, Sherlock. Aliens?" John stammered. "Invasion? You mean like extraterrestrials?" His skin went very pale and he swayed on his feet.

Alarmed, Sherlock reached out and steadied him. "Please, John," he said. "I beg of you, breathe."

It took several moments, but the crisis moment passed and John's colour improved. "Better?" Sherlock asked. John nodded his head. He glanced around one more time, shook his head as if clearing it, and ran his palm over his face. By the time he'd finished collecting himself the conductor was waving stragglers on board. Gently, Sherlock propelled John forward and onto the train.

"Why? Why do I not know this?" John lowered his voice to barely above a whisper.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. His curiosity in Captain Harkness and companion had already started to fade, but thinking about aliens had reminded him of a curious bloodstain he'd noticed at a crime scene the week before. That put him in mind of a fence who dealt in esoteric merchandise. He sent a text to a contact who could likely either confirm or deny his theory and then looked up at John.

"Because, John, just because someone is extraterrestrial, it doesn't make them not boring. However, if it will make you feel better, the next time we have a client from Alpha Centuri, I'll make a point of letting you know."

John gaped. It was, all things considered, a completely satisfactory result. There would be no more talk of tabloids, or their headlines, on the trip to London.


End file.
